


A Ghost That Looks Like You

by DimeStoreMystery (wrightgotwronged)



Series: Where Do You Keep Your Heart? [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Graphic Depiction of Dismemberment, Here be Desert, Hitchhiker!Dorian, M/M, Modern AU, Southwestern Gothic, Trucker!Bull
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 03:41:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8041135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrightgotwronged/pseuds/DimeStoreMystery
Summary: A story told out of order. Dorian Pavus, with his homeland at his back and surrounded by desert, drifts to where the veil is thin and ghosts like to linger. Lucky for him he has a one-eyed Qunari to keep him company. Yet even though he's plagued with nightmares and lingering memories,Dorian isn't the only one who's dealing with ghosts.





	A Ghost That Looks Like You

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the first time I've ever drifted into the horror genre! I hope y'all like it!
> 
> Also now my lovely beta Jared has made a playlist for the fic so if you want some mood tunes while you read you can listen to it at the link (listen to it pls it's so good): http://tchy.tumblr.com/post/150466533269

_“Felix, when I first left, I yearned for the day that Tevinter would welcome me back—that I could finally come home. Now? I’m not so sure I want to go back. I certainly don’t want to let this—him—go.”_

  


He knew that one day temptation would kill him, but it was the pride that kept him awake at night.  


  


They were almost to their destination. The paradise within the truck would expire in a matter of a week. Two more days of the Wastes, three more until they reached Val Royeaux.  


 

It was another starry night. Even after all of the time here Dorian was still amazed at how the starlight shone through the windows of the truck, illuminating the inside of the cab. As he peered out the window, he could see the ghost that looked like him—standing, waiting, his face-splitting grin stretching the skin of his cheeks. The black tar that had once dripped from the ghost’s mouth now wrapped its way around Dorian’s heart, sitting the wrong way in his chest.

 

Dorian sat at the end of the bed that was nestled in the back. Most of it was occupied by a sleeping Qunari. Dorian was almost naked, wearing only an oversized shirt that wasn’t entirely his.

 

The Qunari was broad, larger than most he’d come in contact with. There were deep scars that marred one of his eyes to the point where he wore an eyepatch over it during the day. In their weeks of travelling together, Dorian had rarely seen him like this: his companion was not usually in such a state of unaware calm.

 

“I can hear you thinking, ‘Vint,” the Qunari rumbled. Dorian hadn’t even realized he was awake.

 

“What are you doing up, Bull? You should be resting.”

 

“Like I said, I can hear you thinking.” Bull pushed himself up into a sitting position. “You’re wearing my shirt.”

 

Dorian averted his eyes, looking down at his feet. “I got cold and couldn’t find mine.”

 

Bull stayed silent, his eye carefully giving Dorian a once over.

 

“What do you think will happen,” Dorian finally asked, breaking the silence, “once we get to Val Royeaux?”

 

“What do you want to happen?”

 

Dorian huffed. “I asked you first,” he said.

 

He had a death grip on the hem of his shirt.

 

_Leave him. He is no different from your father, from Alexius. What will you be when he has no use for you?_

 

Fear and temptation, Dorian could resist. Pride was the one that bent him until he broke. Pride was the one that had made him leave everything in the first place.

 

“Dorian.” Bull placed a warm hand on his shoulder. “This doesn’t have to end here.”

 

“But it does have to end, doesn’t it? You’ll have your new life. This truck and I will be an errant memory.”

 

Bull studied him. Dorian knew the look: he was observing—calculating—trying to figure out exactly what Dorian wanted to hear.

 

“There’s an old Qunari tradition, for those we care about,” he started. His voice was smooth and careful, as was everything he did. “You’d take a dragon’s tooth and split it in half. Each of you would wear a piece. Then, no matter how far apart life takes you, you’d always be together.”

 

“So you’re saying I have to slay a dragon,” Dorian said. “A romantic symbol as unattainable as any of this.”  
  
“What I’m saying is, the world will only break us apart if we let it. Shit, we could be on opposite ends of Thedas, but if our hearts are in it, nothing could ruin that.”

 

It was bluster, mainly. Kind sentiment smattered with unjustified hope. It was similar to the things Felix had whispered to him in the dead of night. Dorian had never believed in “forever.” He barely believed in “just long enough.”

 

Yet, perhaps for tonight—or even the rest of this week—he could believe.

 

Perhaps if he whispered the lie of “forever” enough, it would become truth.

 

-~-

 

_“Felix… the desert seems so much more vast and empty without you here…”_

 

It was after thirty-six hours of driving in the desert that they had finally found civilization in the form of a truck stop. Perhaps a week ago Dorian would’ve made the observation that it was oddly placed in the middle of the Hissing Wastes, between spanning sand dunes and a craggy canyon that he couldn’t recall the name of. Today he understood it as a necessity, a bastion built amidst the winding sands. At the very least, it was the place to grab a shower and those little snack cakes he liked.

 

Which he had done rather quickly, along with picking up a warm cup of coffee; ironically, his Qunari companion required more maintenance than he. Dorian recalled the Bull grumbling something about horn balm and a new neck pillow before he had gone inside. That had been about thirty minutes ago. Dorian would have been worried—maybe something had gone wrong; maybe the Bull’s knee had given out and he was sprawled in a pool of his spilt hot coffee whilst his body spasmed in a most intense pain; maybe there had been a robbery that Dorian couldn’t see because the store’s windows had been scratched by windblown sand.

 

More likely, this truck stop was out of hazelnut creamer and Bull was mulling over whether he should take his coffee black or step out of his comfort zone and pick a new type of flavoring. Last time this debate had gone on for fifteen minutes before Bull had finally settled on vanilla, because he didn’t trust the seasonal gingerbread flavor.

 

Dorian took a long drink from the coffee—two sugars and a splash of half and half—and sank down deeper into the passenger’s seat, placing his feet on the dash. He debated on the merits of going back inside: perhaps Bull needed help with his coffee creamer dilemma, or he could grab more snack cakes. Neither of those things sounded particularly fun to Dorian.

 

His eyes landed on the dashboard radio. It was an old, cumbersome thing, big and square with a mic attached to it. Bull would use it to phone in at random times of day, had even taken the time to show Dorian how it worked.

 

Dorian looked back at the store. Bull wouldn’t be coming out anytime soon. He flipped on the radio and took the small handheld mic from its perch. He turned the dial, finding an empty channel.

 

“Hello?” He held the mic close to his lips, waiting for a voice to answer back. Nothing. “This is Peacock One calling to Felix Alexius.”

 

Dorian chuckled, amused at nothing more than the thought of calling his old friend through a truck radio. “Felix! You’ll never guess where I seem to have found myself,” he said. “In the Hissing Wastes, if you can believe it. I can just imagine father shitting his smallclothes at the thought. Do you know what’s funny about the Wastes? There’s so much sand. Too much, even—I know it’s a desert, I’ve read the books, but seeing it... hearing it! Felix, did you know that sand makes the most dreadful sound? Bull says that it’s the sand blowing against itself, isn’t that awful? Imagine being trapped here for days, or weeks, even! There are people that live here. At least according to Bull... oh. You don’t—of course you don’t know him. Honestly, I don’t think anyone does...”

 

He paused. Bull had exited the convenience store, his large insulated mug and a few plastic shopping bags in his hand.

 

Dorian turned off the radio and placed the mic back on its perch.

 

-~-

 

_“Felix... I saw a ghost last night. It looked like me. Even worse, it won’t leave.”_

 

The ghost came in the dark; Dorian remembered it clearly.

 

Bull had pulled the truck over for the night, hoping to stretch his legs before going to bed. Dorian was as well: he was feeling more cramped than usual.

 

He stood next to Bull, staring out over the winding sand, their only light the moons and the stars above them. “How much longer do you think?” he said.

 

“Few days. More than two, less than five. Getting restless, ‘Vint?” Bull gave him an appraising look that was still somehow fond.

 

“You aren’t? I don’t understand how you can look at the same sand day in and day out. I’m losing my mind.”

 

Bull laughed. “Well, you can’t blame it all on the sand,” he said. “Besides, I’ve got good company, this time around.”

 

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were trying to flatter me,” Dorian said. “Unfortunately I do, so I won’t.”

 

They stood in silence. The air was still; there wasn’t even the sound of sand blowing on itself to distract him. It was just him, the Bull, and the stinging static that radiated between them.

“I know what you’re thinking.” The words flew out of Dorian’s mouth, quick and slightly panicked. “You know this changes nothing. That’s all I’m going to say about _it._ ”

 

“So we aren’t talking about what happened last night? Good to know.”

 

“Of course you want to talk about it.” Dorian’s cheeks were a bright pink, luckily hidden under the cover of night. “There are just some things one doesn’t need to talk about. Especially when there’s nothing to talk about.”

 

“You think this is one of them?” The Bull’s voice was its usual calm. Perhaps talks like this were second nature to him.

 

Dorian didn’t know whether or not it made it worse.

 

“It was a lapse in judgement—” Dorian paused, quickly correcting himself. “Not that it was bad. It was a very good lapse in judgement.”

 

“Careful. You’re about to start talking about it.” Bull said, and gave him a smug look.

 

“This is entrapment! You’re entrapping me into talking about my _feelings._ ” The word oozed from Dorian’s mouth like poison. “I’m not falling for it, because I know there’s nothing—”

 

Dorian stopped. A shiver crawled its way up his back, the hairs on his nape standing on end. He turned away from Bull, as if a gentle, unstoppable force was tugging him toward the flat, ever expanding Wastes. His eyes landed on a small pile of black—something—out in the middle of the desert.

 

“What is that?” Dorian asked, slowly moving away from the truck.

 

“You mean the sand dune?” Bull said, keeping his eye on Dorian.

 

Of course Bull didn’t see it. This wasn’t something meant for him to see. Dorian walked further out into the sands. His steps weren’t of his own accord. There was a warmth at the place where his shoulder blades met. He felt like a child being led by his father. Instead of it being into the Magister’s study, it was out to parts unknown.

 

Upon closer inspection, the pile was actually something neatly wrapped in fabric. The fabric was white, more of an eggshell, instead of the black that Dorian had first observed. He knelt down, reaching out to touch the tightly wrapped thing. The fabric wasn’t much of anything, a soft linen. His hand gently pulled at the fabric, trying to unwrap the foreign bundle. He didn’t have a reason why; it just seemed like something he needed—no, wanted to do.

 

A scream lodged itself into Dorian’s throat as he undid the wrapping. A corpse, cold to the touch and to the sight, looked up at him. Its eyes were open, staring. Dorian recognized those eyes as the ones that looked back at him from the reflections in car windows and mirrors. The face seemed thinner, but the cheekbones were the same.

 

It twitched.

 

No, it moved. The corpse with Dorian’s eyes moved its head. It was looking, staring.

 

Dorian stared back. Right into his own eyes.

 

The corpse laid still. Dorian knelt still. The air sat still, thick and suffocating. Even the sand, in all of its winding, felt frozen in place.

 

The corpse’s mouth moved slowly, the skin around its lips stretching and wrinkling. A grim, crooked smiled revealed teeth of grey. Its mouth was oozing black sludge.

 

Is this what would become of him? A dead man, lost in sand?

 

His right hand was freezing. It was cold, but not empty. The corpse had reached for him, wrapping its frigid fingers around Dorian’s palm.

 

He felt a weight pressing down on his shoulder—no, a hand.

 

Dorian quickly turned to the source of the touch. Bull was there, his face flat and calculating. Dorian noticed something in Bull’s eye—worry, perhaps.

 

“Something wrong with the truck?” Dorian asked nonchalantly, as if he wasn’t holding hands with a corpse that looked like him but wasn’t quite him.

 

“You’re worried about the truck?”

 

“You’re not?”

 

“Dorian, what happened? You run off mid sentence and go to do—whatever it is you’re doing...”

 

Dorian had misjudged: that wasn’t worry. It was fear. But fear of what, he couldn’t tell.

 

“I need coffee,” Dorian said finally. “Why don’t you let me finish here and I’ll meet you back at the truck?”

 

“Should you be alone?” Bull asked, making no move to leave.

 

“It will only be a minute. I’ll be right behind you. You won’t even notice I’m gone.” Dorian smiled. It was earnest, but not convincing.

 

“I’ll notice.” Bull let a tiny smile slip. “Don’t take too long, alright?”

 

“I won’t.”

 

Dorian watched as Bull walked back to the truck. He made sure he was at a safe distance before turning back to the corpse.

 

It had disappeared.

 

Dorian opened his hand and all that was left was sand.

 

-~-

-~-

_“Felix, has my father called? Is he worried about his broken son?”_

 

It was a clear, starry night when Dorian ran away.

 

No storms, like the films would have had you believe. No real sneaking away. He left his home by the front door, if you could believe it.

 

Just a boy, taking only what he could carry to the nearest bus stop.

 

Running away should never have been this easy. It was as if he were a specter, his only presence in his home the odd icy glance and an occasional sound of painstaking footsteps.

 

Running away was the easy part. It was the staying away that Dorian had always had trouble with.

 

When the bus made its first stop outside Tevinter, Despair had taken the seat next to Dorian’s. With her she brought a cold, piercing shawl of melancholy. She had gently draped the shawl over Dorian’s shoulders and brought him to her bosom, her freezing, talon-like fingers combing through his hair.

 

She would have reminded him of his mother, if his mother had ever done such a thing.

 

Despair didn’t talk, but she was never silent. She would sing as she rocked back and forth. Sometimes her voice would sound like a deep canyon that became an abyss; that was when Dorian would sleep. Other times her voice was shrill, the song coming undone. That was when Dorian would fidget and try to wrestle out of her grasp.

 

Despair, for being as old as she was, still had an unyielding grip.

 

When most of the passengers had got off the bus in Nevarra, Rage had taken the seat in front of him.

 

Rage was quiet. Dorian almost didn’t notice him. Yet Rage, unlike Despair, was blistering. Heat radiated from his amorphous body, scorching Dorian’s skin. Rage made him clench his fists.

 

Despair had silenced him. Rage made him scream.

 

At the next stop, Pride had taken the seat next to Rage. Where Rage was quiet, and Despair was indecipherable, Pride loved to talk.

 

_Young one, this earth has no place for you. Mere soil is not worthy for your feet to tread. Perhaps where we hail from will suit you better._

 

At this point, Dorian was jaded. He had heard Despair’s songs, felt Rage’s heat. Pride he could tune out for a while. It would only be later that he’d come to learn that Pride didn’t give up so easy.

 

Soon the bus made its final stop. It was time for them to leave. Dorian was far, far from home.

 

Even worse, he was alone.

 

-~-

 

-~-

 

_“Felix, our fathers have warned us of spirits—of demons, mainly. How they’re dangerous and corrupting. They never warned us about how annoying they can be.”_

 

After their meeting in the desert, Dorian’s ghost had a knack for showing up at odd times. Sometimes Dorian would see him as he stared out the window; sometimes he would spy him in Bull’s rearview mirror. The worst was when he would get handsy. Not with Dorian, of course—that would have been manageable. It was Bull the ghost was fond of. Its hands would rub his shoulders, stroke his horns. It wasn’t as if Dorian was jealous; that would have been preposterous. Yet it was due to Dorian’s presence that his corpse was hanging around. Perhaps it was guilt, maybe worry, but Dorian _was not_ jealous.

 

“Do you fear demons, Bull?” Dorian asked. The ghost that looked like him but wasn’t quite him had decided to hang around on the hood of the truck. It was smiling at them through the windshield.

 

“Never liked them,” Bull grumbled. “I know you mages are more friendly with them than most.”

 

Dorian snorted. “Is that what you think?” he said. “That we mages invite demons to tea? Have slumber parties?”

 

“You know what I mean.” Bull turned up the heat in the truck a bit.

 

“Unfortunately, I do. But while we mages may be more prone to their influence, that does not mean that we enjoy their presence. Well, it does not mean that _I_ enjoy their presence.”

 

The ghost, at this point, moved from the hood of the truck to sit in the open space between Dorian and Bull. He seemed to be annoyed that he wasn’t a part of the conversation.

 

Perhaps he was more like Dorian than Dorian—the mostly alive one—would have guessed.

 

Bull shifted in his seat, unusually tense. “Sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

 

“What if I am? Does that scare you?”

 

The ghost nestled into Bull’s side, looking up at him with those cold, lively eyes of his.

 

Bull, once again, turned the heater up a notch.

 

The three of them—two and half if you wanted to be picky—sat in silence. Dorian’s brow was slicked with sweat, no doubt from the heat that Bull insisted on keeping so high even though they were in a bloody desert.

 

Bull’s fingers were wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. His eye was diligently focused on the road in front of them.

 

The ghost, of course, was unimpressed by all of this.

 

“I’m not afraid of you,” Bull said, breaking the silence. “I’m concerned, not afraid.”

 

“Concerned? Careful, Bull, with talk like that, I might assume that you care.”

 

“Good. Someone has to.”

 

Every conversation with Bull seemed to be an elaborate dance—if said elaborate dances were witnessed by the odd ghost or demon, at least. Dorian would posit a question that the Bull would dodge with ease. Bull would lead Dorian into a false sense of security that would soon result in him revealing more about himself than he’d have liked to. Dorian would reset the dance with a joke or a huff at Bull’s audacity. Bull would take Dorian’s hand and twirl him about and wrap him up in some meaningless chatter before throwing him off balance with genuine care.

 

Dorian would fall. He fell quite a bit during these conversations. Yet the Bull would help him up and the dance would begin again.

 

“And that someone should happen to be you?” Dorian scoffed.

 

“Doesn’t always have to be.” The Bull turned to him, giving Dorian a knowing look.

 

The ghost, disgusted, left the cab—off to go torment some innocent wildlife or whatever it was that he liked to do.

 

“It’s fucking hot in here,” Bull said suddenly.

 

“I am sweating like the underside of Andraste’s left arse cheek.” Dorian lifted a hand to turn the A/C on.

 

“This truck is fucking weird, one minute it’s colder than a witch’s tit in here and the next it’s sweltering,” Bull groused, rolling down a window.

 

“Maybe the truck is possessed by some sort of thermostat-altering demon,” Dorian teased.

 

“Don’t even joke about that, ‘Vint.”

 

-~-

 

_“Felix, are you comfortable? I trust that the soil in your family plot brings your brittle bones some peace. The maggots would have to be a thing to get used to, I suppose, but I admit it would be better than having your essence turned to ash and scattered along a beach or in a temple. Well, no, perhaps that is the better option, now that I think of it…”_

 

Dorian’s rare moments of slumber were light, yet not dreamless. He should be so lucky as not to dream.

 

He wondered if Bull dreamed. He was told that most Qunari didn’t, but Bull was not most Qunari.

 

Dorian dreamt of his funeral. Or at least, he dreamt of the funeral of someone that looked like him, that felt like him. And yet, he had no confirmation that it was himself laid out upon the stone slab, wrapped in simple cloth, his skin of gold turned to ash. He was standing there looking at the corpse, after all.

 

Those who had birthed him—who had shaped him from amorphous clay into human, who had watched him transform from human to corpse—stood around his body, heads bowed: not in grief, but in guilt.

 

Then, the ritual began.

 

His mother was first. Her hands had a tight, almost suffocating grip on the ritual blade as she made her first incision. The blade slid smoothly across the corpse’s throat, slicing the tender skin. Her long, elegant fingers reached into the wound, searching out and then pulling out his larynx. She held the small box of flesh in her fingers before slipping it into a pouch on her hip.

 

His father was next. He whispered a small prayer and pressed a gentle kiss to the corpse’s forehead before digging his fingernails into the wounds his mother made and twisting his head sharply. The corpse’s neck cracked under the pressure. His father twisted it in the opposite direction. Another crack: the sound of his spine snapping rang throughout the temple. His father, with the hands that had shaped him—that had held him—ripped head from neck, bits of flesh and shattered spine spattering the stone slab. He gently placed the head of his son’s corpse in a glass box for all to see.

 

Alexius took his hands, pressing a kiss to each of the corpse’s knuckles before sawing through his wrists. He twisted and dislocated Dorian’s hands before ripping each one off, and kept them on a chain around his neck.

 

Bull and Felix took nothing; they simply laid flowers at the corpse’s feet. They each set down bouquets of asphodel and red chrysanthemum.

 

The final turn was Dorian’s. He walked up to stone slab, staring at the corpse that looked like him but was not quite him until after the ritual had begun. His mother placed a hand on his shoulder and offered him the same blade she had used to take his larynx.

 

Dorian rolled the knife in his hands, his blood dripping from the blade and onto the ashen skin of the corpse below. He gripped the hilt and plunged it into his sternum. He pushed all of his weight down on it, his breastbone shattering and cracking under the pressure. He wedged the blade into the cracked bone, twisting and pushing until his chest broke apart, revealing his heart.

 

He took it out; it was heavy and sticky in his hands, greying and lifeless, signs of atrophy apparent. Dorian stared at the lifeless organ. His hands closed tightly, crushing it between his fingers. The heart was a mess, tiny bits of of grime and gristle oozing under his fingernails. But as he loosened his hands, he saw the heart had still kept its shape. Resilient—like rubber, or will. Dorian turned the heart around and placed it back in the corpse’s chest cavity, upside down.

 

From a pouch at his waist, Dorian pulled out a needle and thread. For now, he would stitch up the wound he had created. He pierced the open skin surrounding the reversed heart and pulled the thread through, again and again, pushing any pieces of shattered sternum out of its path. He tied off the last stitch and cut the string with his teeth.

 

The ritual had been completed. The final step was to cast what was left of the body into a tomb, where it would be encased in a home of stone and soil.

 

Dorian watched as his loved ones carried off the corpse and placed it in the tomb, his own heart beating as a snake of sorrow coiled its way into his chest. The snake suffocated him, taking every last bit of breath from his lungs.

 

Dorian always seemed to wake up at that part, clawing and scratching at his chest.

 

The reversed heart still beat, it seemed.

 

-~-

 

_“Felix, I think Bull knows that I talk to you. Or... to someone on this mic, at least. Even when I put everything back as it was, he looks at the radio as if someone has tampered with it. He hasn’t said anything about it, which I’ve interpreted as him saying a lot. Bull could tell you his whole life story without opening his mouth once.”_

 

The Bull did not dream.

 

He remembered.

 

There were days when he could not tell the difference between the sand under his wheels and the sand that crunched under his feet when he was a soldier. Even though the sands were much harsher in Seheron.

 

There were days when he could not remember his name. Which name varied from day to day.

 

Tonight, in his memory, he was Hissrad. Young. Strong. Prideful.

 

He couldn’t exactly remember what mission he was on: those, he could never place. One too many blows to the head could ruin a memory like that.

 

Sometimes he could remember smells. There was a small tent that served these strange kebabs made from lurker meat, smelling of coriander and ginger. The grill in the tent also had a particular scent; the man would put elfroot in with the charcoal, giving  the smoke a distinctive flavor.

 

What he never seemed to forget was the blood: the kind that was pumped by his heart, the kind that curdled with each pained scream, the kind that stained his hands even after he had scrubbed them many times.

 

If he clenched his fists tight enough he could still feel the dried remnants of Seheron that were stuck between his fingers.

 

He was angry with himself for not remembering everything. Perhaps it was for the best.

 

The mind could be like armor, protecting the wearer in ways that were beyond even their own comprehension.

 

**-~-**

 

_“Felix, I may be joining you soon. Temptation has finally bested me.”_

 

Their collision was akin to lightning striking the desert, the heat transforming the sand into rough glass.

 

Dorian had forgotten what brought him here. He was pinned up against the side of the truck, his arms wrapped around Bull’s neck. Bull was putting those deft lips to work, covering Dorian’s neck and collarbone with marks.

 

The before didn’t really matter, it seemed.

 

The urge to push Bull off after the first bite had burned within Dorian. The fear of someone seeing Bull’s handiwork itched in the back of his mind.

 

He didn’t push him off, of course. Their only witnesses out here were stars and sand.

 

Dorian could feel himself pushing out of his skin. It was an odd, untouchable feeling. Calling it ascension would have been melodramatic, and also inaccurate: he still had at least one foot on the ground.

 

“Still with me?” Bull asked, his mouth pressing kisses into the crook of Dorian’s neck.

 

“You’ve asked me that five times already. Are you taking a survey?”

 

Bull chuckled. “You haven’t said much. Thought you’d be more of talker, I suppose.”

 

“It’s hard to put words together, what with you being your distracting self.”

 

Bull kissed him. The heat made Dorian melt under his lips. For once in his life, his brain was quiet. Gentle static took the place of the errant wailing from the spirits that clung to him.

 

For one night, nothing could touch him.

 

**-~-**

 

_“Felix, it seems as if I’m not the only one who has trouble with ghosts.”_

 

Dorian was asleep when the truck pulled to a stop.

 

His bleary, sleep crusted eyes opened to an eerie glow coming from the windshield. He turned to his travel companion, who had the steering wheel in a vice-like grip. Bull’s knuckles were white like ash.

 

“Why did we stop?” Dorian asked, his voice still muddied with sleep.

 

“Fog. We can’t drive in this.” Bull spared a quick glance at him before looking back at the road.

 

“Then why don’t we turn the truck off and rest for the night?”

 

Bull didn’t answer. Dorian turned back to stare out the windshield, the fog winding and swirling under the lights of the truck.

 

Dorian would never admit it, but he didn’t know much about most things. Chemistry was never his forte, and the particulars of Avvar storytelling had never caught his interest. The idea of him having to know everything at every moment meant that the illusion was working. Ironically, illusions were something that he knew very well.

 

Another thing Dorian knew well was fear.

 

Fear could be freezing cold or smoldering hot depending on where you were sitting. Fear could turn ants into giants or mothers into murderers. It could even cause great men like Bull to stop, petrified. Even if rationality told Bull to push forward, fear could freeze him in place.

 

Their silence was interrupted by a loud thumping on the roof of the cab. Bull jolted, looking up at the ceiling.  
  
“I assume you heard that.” Dorian’s demeanor was calm. Weird things had been a routine occurrence on this road. Perhaps he was a conduit for this sort of thing. As if he were wearing a sign saying “weird shit welcome,” or something close to it.

 

“You heard that?” Bull looked at him, something unreadable in his eye.

 

“Yes, it was quite loud. I would be worried if I hadn’t heard it.”

 

“That’s not what I—” Bull shook his head, pulling a flashlight out of the glove compartment. “Stay here.”

 

Bull quickly exited the cab, evidently deciding that the best response for this situation was fight over flight.

 

Dorian sat, counting to five before following him out, trying his best to spot the Qunari lost in the fog. Bull was inspecting the thick cloud surrounding them, frantically checking his six as well as his three, nine, and twelve o’clock.  
  
“You understand that flashlight won’t do you any good?” Dorian said, placing a hand on Bull’s shoulder.

 

Bull flinched at the touch. “I thought I told you to stay in the truck.”

 

Dorian pulled his hand away. “No, you said to ‘stay here.’ Well, I’m here.”

 

“You don’t understand—”

 

Bull’s tirade was interrupted by a low wail.

 

The pair froze in place. The wail was harmonious, a collection of voices coming from all sides. The sound pierced through skin and tissue, finding a comfortable place along Dorian’s spine.

 

Bull pulled Dorian closer to him. “Get inside.”

 

Dorian shook his head, slowly stepping back towards the truck and pulling Bull along with him. “Not without you,” he said.

 

The wail grew louder, more dissonant. The gentle harmony was gone, the chord becoming more like a siren.

 

As the two of them each took a step towards the truck, the sound came closer—closer—closer.

 

A figure formed in the fog. Another one. Then a few more. They were mostly human, wrapped in sand-stained bandages. Dorian couldn’t make out their faces—each of them had heads engulfed in black smoke, their teeth the only feature that was visible. Their hands were outstretched, split fingernails and peeling cuticles plainly visible.

 

Dorian held onto Bull’s wrist, feeling his pulse going a mile a minute. “We need to go.”

 

“I can’t move my feet.” Bull said. He shivered, despite the thick heat in the air.

 

Dorian felt a hand on his shoulder. One of the creatures had made its way to him. Another placed a hand on his face, the other one on his chest. More and more came up to him; soon he felt their touch all over.

 

“What are they, Bull?” he asked, keeping still.

 

“You can see them?” Bull backed up, bumping into the grill of the truck.

 

“It’s a little more than see at this point. What are they?” he repeated.

 

“I don’t know.” Bull shook his head and closed his eye tightly.  
  
“They wouldn’t be hurting you this much if that was true.”

 

One of the creatures wrapped a hand around Dorian’s wrist, leading him away from where he and Bull had been standing.

 

Bull reached out, not knowing what to do. “Fog Warriors,” he said.

 

“This is what they look like?” Another one placed its hand on Dorian’s waist.

 

“I don’t know. I never saw them.”

 

Dorian remembered tales of the Fog Warriors. He’d heard about them in gossip, read about them in books. Men who worked in the fog, leaving nothing but dead soldiers in their wake. He had only heard of them traipsing about in Seheron.

 

Perhaps Dorian wasn’t the only one seeing ghosts.

 

“Bull, I need you to listen to me.” Dorian gently shoved one of the creatures off. “We aren’t in danger. I need you to believe that.”

 

Bull shook his head.

 

“Bull, these aren’t Fog Warriors,” he said firmly. “You’re being haunted.”

 

“That doesn’t make things better.”

 

Another push, another step. Dorian was slowly making his way towards the truck. “Look, they aren’t hurting me. They’re hurting you. That’s what they do. They make your chest swell, your muscles tense.”  
  
“How do we make them stop?” Bull pleaded as Dorian finally made his way back to his side.

 

“I don’t know. I never could.” Dorian kept his hands out and his palms flat, using himself as a barrier between the creatures and Bull. “Perhaps they’ll never stop. I don’t know. What I do know is that we need to get back in the truck and get out of here.”

 

Dorian nudged Bull toward the driver’s seat as he walked along to the passenger’s side. A creature grabbed his ankle as he climbed up, but Dorian kicked him off and closed the door.

 

“Go.”

 

Bull slammed his foot on the gas pedal without hesitation, driving through the fog. It felt like an eternity had passed when they finally broke through. The road was as it had always been.

 

They didn’t talk for two days after that.

 

**-~-**

 

“ _Felix, I’ve fallen in love. Perhaps my father was right: he did raise a fool.”_

 

It had been two weeks since Dorian and Bull had parted ways.

 

It was for the best, Dorian thought. Bull was to meet some family friend, who would then take him farther south for more work. He hadn’t explained what the work was, but it seemed probable it was of a suspect nature.

 

Dorian, once again, was alone.

 

It wasn’t all bad, of course. He at least had a vague idea of what the next step was. The next step was a house.

 

Although “house” may have been an understatement. What kind of house had an entranceway made entirely of marble?

 

Dorian’s destination was visible from the bus stop. It stood proudly in its solitude, nothing but open land surrounding it. The front steps were accented with golden griffin statues on either side. It was beautiful in its opulence.

 

In that house was chance at a new start. A clean slate—one made of marble, it seemed. It was what he had been waiting for so long, and now he could finally taste it.

 

But first he had to make a phone call.

 

Luckily, the bus stop still believed in novelty and had a payphone set up. Dorian paid the minor fee and dialed the number that he had memorized in two short weeks.

 

“Hello,” a low, sleepy voice said.

 

“Did I wake you?” Dorian asked, checking his watch. It shouldn’t have been too early for a phone call.

 

Shifting and grunting could be heard on the other side of the line, as if someone was moving to sit up in their bed. “No.”

 

“Don’t lie to me. You should know by now you can’t fool me, Bull.”

 

“It was a long night out with the boys,” Bull admitted, knowing that he’d been caught. “Krem was in a competitive mood, and someone pulled out the good stuff.”

 

“Did you win, at least?”

 

“Of course,” Bull laughed. “What about you? Bus ride go okay?”

 

“It was fine, if dreadfully boring. I also have no idea what this place is or why you sent me here.”

 

“It’s an old Orlesian Estate, Chateau Ghislain. I thought you’d figure that out from the gold accents.”

 

“Look, not all of us can have an intimate knowledge of various Thedosian architectures,” Dorian huffed.

 

“Settle down, big guy,” Bull said. Dorian could practically hear his smile on the other end of the line. “A good friend lives in that place. She needs some help with her library and, well, you need a place to stay. I thought it’d work as a temporary arrangement.”

 

“I could think of worse places to be, certainly.”

 

The receiver beeped, signalling that they were almost out of time.

 

“I won’t keep you any longer,” the Bull said, before letting out a soft yawn.

 

“Get some sleep, you lummox.”

 

“Don’t need to tell me twice. Call me when you get settled in,” Bull said, once again throwing Dorian off with his concerned tone.

 

“Yes, yes, I’ll be sure to check in. Be happy that I love you. I can only handle so much mother henning,” Dorian said.

 

The other end of the line was silent. Dorian wondered if the payphone had cut them off again, but, no, he could still hear Bull’s breathing on the other side. He went back over his last few sentences, wondering if he had misstepped.

 

Oh.

 

“Did I just—”

 

“You did.”

 

“Well, would you look at that!” Dorian chimed. “I have to go... to the house—yes, the house. I need to go meet your friend and make my new start in life. Goodbye!”

 

Bull laughed. “Well, you go ahead and do that, kadan. We’ll talk again soon.”

 

“Of course,” Dorian said, distracted from his flight. “And when I next call you, you can tell me what ‘kadan’ means.”

 

“And miss out on your reaction when you figure it out yourself? Where’s the fun in that?”

 

“Goodbye, Bull.”

 

“Stay safe, kadan.”

 

The other end of the line went dead. Dorian hung the phone up and began his trek to Chateau Ghislain. According to Bull, it was only a five minute walk from the bus stop.

 

As Dorian finally made his way to the entranceway, a creeping chill climbed up his spine. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood up straight.  His hands grew cold and clammy. He turned around and was greeted by himself. The ghost that was him but not quite smiled, his black teeth still putting Dorian on edge.

 

“Oh, you’re coming too?” Dorian crossed his arms. “I think Bull’s friend was only expecting one guest today.”

 

The ghost said nothing.

 

“Look,” Dorian said, his voice firm. “You’re terrifying. I don’t admit that often, but you terrify me—I terrify me.”

 

The ghost cocked his head, giving Dorian a look that said, “Go on.”

 

“But that doesn’t mean you can keep following me around like this. You can’t hurt me anymore.”

 

The ghost rolled his eyes, bored and unimpressed.

 

“I’m going to go inside, meet Ghislain or whoever, and take a shower with soaps that cost more than one sovereign for the first time in weeks. I think it’s time for you to go.”

 

And the ghost just stood there, staring. Dorian stared back. He looked into the black abyss that was the ghost’s gaze. He could feel the ghost’s look piercing his chest. Neither of them said anything.

 

Under Dorian’s eyes, the ghost’s face seemed to morph. His brow was softer; the crow’s feet present on the corners of Dorian’s eyes were missing. He was a product of different hands and years of moulding and sculpting. Dorian was a product of his own choices.

 

Dorian turned around, leaving the ghost where he belonged.

 

He walked up the steps of Chateau Ghislain and knocked on the door.

 

Despite its unusual position it his chest, his heart still beat.

 

**-~-**

 

_“Felix, I don’t want to be alone anymore.”_

 

Dorian had dreamt of his death more times he could count. Cardiac arrest was the most common, or disembowelment if his nightmares were feeling spicy. He had seen his death many times. He’d never thought it would be something as boring as dehydration.

 

He had been walking for a while. His money for bus fare had run out somewhere in Nevarra. Hitchhiking had gotten him to the Hissing Wastes. Walking had brought him to his grave, it seemed.

 

Dorian laid in the sand, his arms splayed and his eyes closed. He should’ve stopped in Nevarra, but pride and rage had possessed him to keep going, to get as far as he could. Desperation may have also had a hand in it.

 

The next time Dorian opened his eyes, he wasn’t alone.

 

The sand that had acted as his resting place was missing, replaced with leather. A gust of cool air blasted Dorian’s face, the sweat on his forehead chilling his skin.

 

A voice startled Dorian out of his stupor. “Good, you’re awake,” it said.

 

Dorian turned his head, trying to find the source of the voice. It was a Qunari. His broad chest peeked out of the uniform shirt he was wearing and an eyepatch sat on his left eye.

 

“How are you feeling?” the Qunari said. He pressed a cool cloth to Dorian’s forehead. He was gentle for his immense size.

 

“Like I was hit by a bus,” Dorian groaned. “Where am I?”

 

“You’re out in the Hissing Wastes.”

 

“I know that much.” Dorian sat up, trying to stretch. “I meant that I was half dead out in the sand, and now I’m not, so what changed?”

 

“You’re in my truck. I saw you from the road. Thought I was going to have to call you in, but it turns out you were still breathing.”

 

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “So you decided to play nursemaid.”

 

“Would’ve taken too long for an ambulance to get to you. I tried to at least get you stable first.”

 

“Well, I thank you for not mistaking me for a corpse, um—” Dorian paused. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

 

“Just call me Bull.”

 

Dorian glanced up at Bull’s horns. “Oddly fitting.”

 

Bull laughed. “Haven’t heard that one before.”

 

“Of course you haven’t, I’m a bastion of originality and creativity,” Dorian said. “I’m Dorian, if it matters to you.”

 

“It does. Why were you out there?”

 

“I had places to go. I was waiting to see if someone could at least give me a ride through the desert.”

 

Bull stared at him, trying to make sense of the whole situation. “Why don’t I drive you to the rest stop a few miles from here? Maybe we could... call someone?”

 

“Wouldn’t do much. I’m alone out here.”

 

Bull nodded, chewing on his lip in consideration. “Well, I’m headed towards Val Royeaux. I can’t just leave you here.”

 

“Are you offering to take me with you?”

 

“Better for you to be in here than wandering the desert on your own.”

 

Dorian went over his very minimal options. It basically boiled down to: die out in the desert, or ride out in the truck and hope the Qunari didn’t kill him. Either seemed better than going back home, so at least he had that going for him.

 

“So you’re offering me free passage into Val Royeaux? Even though you have no reason to?”

 

“Like I said, I can’t leave you out here. Besides, the desert can get pretty lonely,” Bull said. “Wouldn’t hurt to have a co-pilot.”

 

Dorian affected a shrug. “Your truck doesn’t seem to be too terrible,” he said. “I could handle a few weeks in here.”

 

Bull laughed. Dorian felt a fluttering in his chest; it had a been a while since he’d be surrounded by such positive energy.

 

Dorian looked out at the road. He was greeted with an endless sea of sand split down the middle by a paved road. He would just have to hope that this venture wouldn’t end in complete disaster.

 

At this point, what else could he do?

 

“I suppose it’s better than the alternative,” he said. “Alright, Bull. Let’s go to Val Royeaux.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hoo Boy where do I begin?! This is my first time participating in the minibang and I HAVE TONS OF PEOPLE TO THANK. I wanna firstly thank my lovely beta Jared! If it weren't for em this fic would not have been finished! I also want to thank Sam, Marie, Jame, Riss, Toft, Jasper, June and taispeantas_laethuil . These friends were in the writing dens with me, sharing kind words all the way!!
> 
> Of course I wanna thank my lurvely artist Jessie!!
> 
> Honestly anyone who had interacted with me during the process of this event deserves a fuckin thank you honestly! I was a temperamental mess throughout most of it and if it weren't for everyone's support this thing wouldn't have gotten done!! I love each and every one of you.


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